Displaced
by Delphanious
Summary: Malkavian vampire from the future gets 'stuck' in the past and wings it.


**Disclaimer**

I don't claim to own any of the terms, themes, or world belonging to WhiteWolf. All characters within are my original design - but are based on WhiteWolf's V:tM system.**  
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**Author's Note**

To start things off I feel the need to explained the situation with the main character, Morrick, and provide a little bit of a back-story. Everything I'm about to explain is in the text of the story but not details caught by many of the readers. Morrick is a Malkavian vampire originally living in the 52nd century (That's the 5100's for those of you who don't get this detail). In the 52nd century Morrick was 'disposed of' by a Tremere vampire by method of a time machine. The time machine sent Morrick back to the 12th century (1100's). The story begins in this century in which Morrick has only been for a week at most.

**Chapter 1**

Stepping through the halls, Morrick wandered. The music was soft and intoxicating as it leaked from the ballroom nearby. He could smell the kitchen, burning flesh and baking bread pouring over him oppressively. Despite the carpeted floor, every step rung out in his ears. His vision seemed tinted with reds and oranges, but he could see _everything_. As he passed a pair of nervous squires he could see the obvious humanity in one, the other was a ghoul.

This whole kingdom was a joke, at least in mortal terms. The Prince was no human, rather a Camarilla leader, and the captain of the guard was his enforcer Sheriff. The court reeked of vampire taint, though a large portion and most of its followers were merely innocent mortals unaware of the true nature of the masters they followed.

The ghoul Morrick had passed was a Ventrue for sure, but it was the human he was interested in. The human's name was William Fredrick, but again it was not truly the one he was interested in. William Fredrick had a daughter.

Morrick was a truly unusual case. His rightful time period lay more than four thousand years further than he was now. In this advanced age he lived, he was enhanced in the only way he could be. The madness, the voices that constantly called his name unduly, was stifled. A small computer chip implanted in his brain regulated the use of blood when he would exert his vampiric abilities, and it funneled his Malkavian tendencies to help more and harm less. A Tremere, using new Nosferatu technology, had sent Morrick back in time as a method of disposal. He was stranded in the Twelfth century with no way back to the Fifty-Second.

He found himself a new job aligned with the Brujah Prometheans. With great difficulty Morrick quickly convinced himself to delay his desire for William's young Sarah and focused on his mission. This Prince had to go. For the good of all vampires, according to the Prometheans, and even the Kine too.

Morrick stopped moving almost completely and seemed to fade away into nothing. He was still there, although no one would ever know it. He merely observed for a few moments, concealed within his own shadows. The velvet red of the carpet was even more luscious through his Auspex vision. The torches on the walls were so cleverly disguised it seemed as if the halls were just lit, rather than by a flame or even the harmful rays of the sun. Upon closer inspection Morrick realized the torches were in fact fake, cover-ups to explain the magic-induced light filling the corridor. Between every pair of doorways he spotted the Ventrue coat-of-arms and knew what he needed to do.

He walked again and found himself at the end of the hall, slowly fading back into opacity as he did so. The door was obviously important, as it was highly over-decorated and looked as if it cost more alone than half the kingdom. He stood up close and listened with an ear to the door; the only noises inside were that of a purring cat and the hissing of an open window. Taking his chances, he yanked the door handle hard and shattered the lock on impact.

This was definitely some sort of bedroom; although it wasn't as grand as would be expected it seemed it could belong to none other than the Prince himself. The cat glared at him through orange eyes as he shifted the stack of books below the peaceful thing, looking for anything important. The cat bounded off a few steps before it slowly shifted into a form that would seem human. Her appearance was shaggy and rough, wearing clothing that wouldn't be socially acceptable – especially in this day and age; upon turning around, Morrick knew she was a Gangrel.

"What are you doing," she paused to sniff the air and then added, "you Malkavian?"

Morrick only smiled at her and resumed looking through the books. Remembering the open window, he knew one of two things were true: the Gangrel was a Camarilla guard and was going to throw him out the gaping window, or the Gangrel was an independent spy and used the window to get in. Neither was promising.

"I said, 'What are you doing?'" she repeated, not even waiting a full two seconds before spinning Morrick around roughly with her off hand on his shoulder. Her good hand, drawn back far and fisted, released itself towards his unsuspecting face. Luckily Morrick lost balance in surprise at being spun around and fell backwards, avoiding the fist and landing almost painlessly on his behind. He crawled backwards a few feet while scrambling upwards quickly in case he had to defend himself.

"What was that all about?" he asked, indignant.

She grinned a bit. He may not have been very graceful, she thought, but he seemed to have that special characteristic of survival that led so many vampires to greatness.

"I asked you a question," she sounded cold and as if she would strike him again at any moment, "and I still want an answer."

Morrick looked her over, judging to see if she would be a threat if she didn't like the truth he had to tell. She didn't seem a threat, but he still felt he'd rather not answer her directly.

"I was looking for a little light reading. What better way to find a good book than to break into the Prince's chamber and _borrow _a few of his? If you're doing the same, I can share." He held up one of the many handwritten books and held it out to the Gangrel. "How does: _Human Anatomy as Explained by the Bible_ sound? Or…" he fumbled the books around and held out another, "_Ruling Your First Kingdom_ – I hear it got great reviews." The mention of 'reviews' to the Gangrel was unknown; Morrick lived in a very different society than she did – and she knew it.

"Wait… I know who you are." She looked at Morrick closely and walked up close to him. "There is a bounty on your head so large that I'd have to kill you… if only you weren't so many years my elder. I've never heard of you before… but I can smell age on you – ages I've never known."

After saying this Morrick knew he only had one choice. This seemingly beautiful Gangrel was going to bring him nothing but trouble. The computer chip in his brain kicked in and his body began to glow blue with Potence. A quick punch to the gut silenced the Gangrel only long enough for him to find her neck beneath his fangs. He didn't regularly practice diablerie so he punctured her only to let her bleed. As a final insurance policy to her death, he pulled a futuristic switchblade from his pocket and dug it deep into her chest. Her eyes were wide, the orange glow slowly fading in and out; a tear could be seen streaming down her face. She didn't expect to die and she probably wasn't ready, but as the saying goes 'Self-preservation is a major factor of humanity, and vampires need as much of that as they can get.'

Wiping her taste from his lips, he watched her body burn itself to ash. He picked up one book that actually seemed rather interesting; it was the Prince's diary. Walking out of the room, he knew where the Prince must obviously be; the ball was the only thing going on this evening.

With a quick step into the ballroom he made an even quicker retreat out. Aside from the offensive sound of off-key instruments, he noticed every dancer had a mask. It was a _masquerade _ball. He waited right outside the door to the ballroom for only a few moments before a drunken dancer wobbled out to get some fresh air. Morrick grabbed the woman by the top of her head with his left hand and planted his right on the topside of her shoulder. Tilting her head to the side, he dove, planting his fangs deep into her throat. She let out a few uncontrolled moans and soft coos of euphoria as he drained her slowly. Pulling his bloody lips gently from her subdued body he tactfully plucked off her mask and wore it as his own.

Again, he walked into the ballroom, beginning a slow waltz and picking up temporary partners every leg of the way towards the Prince's throne. He noted his fellow dancers with little regard; some were ghouls but most were Kine. That was when he spotted something that struck fear into his undead heart: a man wearing clothes resembling that of the 21st century, a full loaded gun belt, and an aura Morrick should have sensed at the door. The smell of the Antitribu was strong. It was Zyx, another Malkavian, but strictly the property of the Sabbat.

Zyx was old enough to be an Antediluvian; possibly he was even of the extinct 2nd generation. _How did he get to this time when he's a product of the 21st century or later? _Morrick himself had went back in time so he knew it was possible, but the idea of someone as powerful and as crazy as Zyx having that ability or leverage was most frightening. The two had met before in Morrick's rightful future. Challenging Morrick to a fight, Zyx had won and forced Morrick to give up the Golden Hand Mirror he had been awarded by the current Primogen for acts of loyalty to the Camarilla. The idea of Zyx's presence put an edge of fear on Morrick's demeanor.

Once close to the Prince, Morrick Obfuscated, or faded into invisibility. Sneaking up behind the Prince, he felt lucky he was not detected as he proceeded to draw his switchblade from his coat. Quickly he slid the blade across the Prince's throat, knowing that it would not be enough. Looking back, Morrick grabbed the decorative sword hanging from the wall behind. He impaled the Prince from behind through the chair he sat in, pinning him to it. Taking the advantage, he left and right hooked the two human guards that appeared to stop him and was surprised when no more came. It occurred to him that, aside from the frightening Zyx somewhere in the crowd, there were no vampires around other than the Prince and himself. Morrick tipped the Prince over with a boot on his gut and let him crash hard to the floor.

"The Prometheans send their regards," he spoke, standing over the Prince before bringing his boot down to smash his face. Knowing the Prince would be dead soon, he looked around to realize everyone had fled during the attack; everyone except Zyx, who stood in the middle of the empty and silent ballroom. Unsure of what to do, Morrick collected himself and stood his ground strongly. Zyx began to take a few slow steps forward and an eerie laugh began to drift out from beneath his lowered face.

"How does the smell of the day treat you, Mor?" Zyx was clearly speaking with the influence of his Malkavian insanity.

"Smells, smells, and more smells. As if the leopard of the stew decided foursies were no longer fineries but instead one-and-a-hillsides." Morrick responded as if the two were speaking a language entirely of their own and to the breed; as a matter of fact it almost was.

"Not without a drop, I see. A sheep with a racquet does not make him a lamb; shivering in your boots." Zyx took a few steps closer towards Morrick who held his ground still.

"Sherries and Ventures, spilt of your blade – or spilt of your brain?" Morrick was less apprehensive of Zyx but not the kind of person to trust someone too quickly.

"Spilt of their own brains, if it may be said. A boon, you recall. My hanging from a cow in the sparkling death," Zyx remarked with a smirk. Morrick had saved Zyx once when he was tied to a stake and left out for the sunrise; Zyx was returning the favor and had killed the Sheriff along with the Prince's vampiric guards.

"How did you know I would be here?" Morrick asked, breaking the pattern of the Malkavian language due to the urgency of his question and his brain's mandate to use Standard English more fluently - thanks to the chip buzzing in his brain.

"That would be a question," Zyx pulled a gun from his belt and aimed it carefully at Morrick's head, "and this would be my answer," and squeezed the trigger. Within a moment of shooting, Zyx also threw the gun as hard as he could towards Morrick at a nearly deadly speed. Morrick, completely confused, took both bullet to the head and gun to the gut and fell to the ground.


End file.
